


Ivraie

by tritonvert



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Potatoes, biblical parables, french republican calendar, french-english puns, obligatory duck joke, puns many puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 00:41:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tritonvert/pseuds/tritonvert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is a fan of the old revolutionary calendar.  And the guys are all nerdy pun-making friends.</p><p>This came from a suggestion by Tumblr-user gauzythreads, who proposed several French Republican Calendar birthdays for the Amis.  I piggybacked a bit on her really cool ideas, keeping some and adding in potatoes and ivraie and a few other things.  But she's the one with the coolness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ivraie

**IVRAIE**

[Ivraie: ryegrass, darnel, _Lolium tementulum_.  From French “ivre,” drunk.  See the [Parable of the Tares](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Parable_of_the_Tares).] **  
**

"But it’s more complicated than that," said Combeferre.  "You can’t simply look at today’s calendar and a 1794 calendar side by side.  The leap years throw it off, opinions differ as to the suitable method of conversion.  If you maintain the southward equinox as the first day of the year—[ _voice: A fig for your southward equinox!_ ]—Grapes, actually.  1 Vendémiaire, Raisin, if I recall correctly.  —[ _one or two_ _murmurs: you are right_ ]— If you maintain the southward equinox as the first day of the year, in preference to Romme’s proposal, then the dates vary, you would have to consider the year of your birth.  Bahorel, when were you—”

Combeferre was shouted down again and made a show of huffing to himself and resuming his work of transcription: only a very close friend would detect suppressed amusement, hard to define, glinting almost more from the corners of his spectacles than from his eyes.  Courfeyrac noticed it—noticed Enjolras noticing—concluded that they were well and he could tumble back into the general conversation.

The Amis had no especial work that day.  Later, Feuilly was expected with minutes from three meetings he had attended in the last weeks—manufacturers’ meetings, immigrants’ meetings—but he had sent word by an urchin that his work would keep him an hour or two past his usual time.  And so the students of the Musain were studying Grantaire’s contributions instead. 

Grantaire had seemed a most fervent republican this last week—at points.  First he had appeared in a new waistcoat: rash enough to make Bahorel murmur, scarlet, striped, with lapels springing wildly outwards.  Courfeyrac had sighed.  The next day Grantaire had been conspicuously drunk.  Three days after that he had won a small fortune from Courfeyrac at cards, distracting him with bitter glosses on the downfall of Robespierre’s circle, thirty-seven years before, and had immediately lost it back to Courfeyrac at dominoes, himself distracted.  Courfeyrac was on the verge of worrying but—well, none of this was exactly new, was it?  Tonight Grantaire had spread a sheet of paper across one table.  A calendar: the calendar of the Republic, lady Philosophie enthroned above it.

"Friends, attention.  Before I drink myself under this table, I make to you a present.   I give you my horoscope.  My divinations.  You know what gods I worship: I view this document as the Greeks viewed Delphi. —[ _Through intoxicating fumes?_ ]—  Do you see this mark? —[ _Yes, it’s port wine._ ]— It’s carmine, you boor.  Look closer and read.”  Joly, game, had leaned in: 4 Thermidor, IVRAIE.

Everyone had had a cheerful laugh at the pun—ivraie to guide their inebriate—and Grantaire had continued.  “Friends, that is my birthday.  When I saw it my life became plain to me.  What could I do but sow myself amongst you all, a parable, inseparable?  ‘Even in these high seats there is both wheat and tares—but let the good tolerate the bad.’”  This flight of fancy had a less ready audience, Biblical weeds being an obscure taste, but a lack of applause never put Grantaire off.  “If our revolutionary forbears could see my murky future so well, surely you more limpid souls will have greater results!  Come one, come all, let me be your sibyl.”  _[I knew a Sibyl once, about your height but lighter on her feet.  And easier on the eyes!]_ It was here that Combeferre had interjected and been suppressed: because Joly had discovered his new calling as a windmill and everyone was too pleased to brook technical quibbling.  Jean Prouvaire gave it his blessing—“Your four wings!”—and several friends crowded around Grantaire’s table, dodging Joly’s vigorous flailing.

Courfeyrac was next, and found himself out a pheasant, a proud pheasant who came away preening his cravat until Bahorel tugged it loose: which made it most patently Bahorel’s turn.  But he proved obstinate. “I have no birthday, I sprung fully-formed from my father’s forehead.”  Combeferre, without looking over, expressed a mild doubt; Courfeyrac fought for the point.  “Not so fast, Bahorel!  Last year your sister came to visit.  It was your birthday.  It was spring, wasn’t it?  She brought you a basket of conserves from home—her own apricots, they were delicious, and a savory jelly with sage—and a pair of lambskin gloves.  What was the day?  Joly, you’ll know, we had a wager on whether—”

"Canard!"

"No, it’s true.  I remember it most distinctly—"

"Canard, all right?  I was born 5 Prairial."

Lesgle stepped in to fill the brief but awkward silence.  “Why, Bahorel, that’s nothing.  I’m Borage.  I was to be Jean Isidore, for my grandmother—we share a birthday—but she had a persistent republican streak.  And so you see me among you, Jean Bourrache.”  Another brief silence before Courfeyrac snatched up the calendar and proposed a rebaptism: _Martagon, a turk’s-cap to cover your head.  No, the Venus-hair fern!  Give me the calendar, Courfeyrac, there must be something better.  Is there a day for an egg?  Oh, look, Jehan, here’s one for you, a Nightingale—_

It was at this point that Feuilly arrived.  He found himself stepping into the view of some eight pairs of eyes, and the subject of a single question in many voices:  _Feuilly, what’s your birthday?_

He scratched his bristling chin, bemused.  Already late, he’d taken an extra ten minutes to stop by his room to change his shirt and wash his face—no time to shave—but even such preparations didn’t always make him feel quite prepared for the whims of his friends.  His birthday?  “Hm.  I don’t have one.  —No, really.  The hospital made a guess when I was left there, so they could fill out some papers, that’s all.  Sometime in May or June.  Enjolras, I’m glad you waited for me.  I think you’ll be pleased.  I’ve had a letter from Lyon.”

He made his way past Grantaire’s table, where Jean Prouvaire was perched with a tattered paper in his hands and a startled tilt to his eyebrows, and sat with Enjolras and Combeferre.  Courfeyrac joined them, and Bahorel, and conversation in the rest of the room started up again to give them cover. 

—

"Enjolras!" 

After Feuilly had made his report, a report received by giddy but appreciative friends, the group had broken up, young men leaving in twos and threes and fours.  Jehan had been heard singing poetry at a tolerant Feuilly and a laughing Bahorel: lindens and nightingales and some lines about ducks that the original poets surely didn’t intend.  He had taken it upon himself to find Feuilly a suitable name-day. 

Courfeyrac had shared a few quiet words with Enjolras and Combeferre, then darted after them; Enjolras and Combeferre had followed soon after; Joly and Lesgle had hauled Grantaire to his feet and tucked his calendar into his waistcoat.  They trailed out, arms linked with their friend’s.  Grantaire lived practically next-door; many evenings they would see him safe at his hearth before moving on to their own lodging. 

The July night could hardly be called cool, but the air had a refreshing effect after the smoke and brandy of the Musain.  Joly coughed; Grantaire rubbed his face and caught sight of Combeferre and Enjolras half a block ahead.  He thumped Joly on the back and trundled forward: “Enjolras!”

The two men waited at the corner for him, chatting.  By the time Lesgle and Joly caught up, Grantaire was standing before Enjolras, smiling crookedly.  “Enjolras, you never asked for your fortune.  You don’t care to tell your friends your birthday?”

"My birthday?"  Enjolras glanced towards Combeferre, eyebrows knotted but not unsmiling.  "You’ll have to look elsewhere for glory, Citizen.  My birthday is the potato."

"The…" Grantaire patted his waistcoat, where the calendar crinkled.  "You’re sure?  Not Imortelle?  That’s the very next day.  Combeferre, if you calculate your equinoxes, your—" 

"I followed Romme’s proposal.  The alternative interpretation gives Cuve for the day."  Combeferre touched Grantaire’s shoulder gently.  "Better a potato than a wine-vat, don’t you think?  It sustained many a revolutionary—and many a hungry family.  I count Parmentier among our great heroes for his work with the potato.  For my part, I have nothing so proud.  My birthday is 22 Ventôse.  _Parsley._ "  He braced Grantaire’s shoulder a moment longer, only letting go when Joly took Grantaire’s elbow.  "Good night, friends.  We’ll see you on Tuesday?  Ah—15 Thermidor, I think."

The two took their turning.  Grantaire ignored Joly’s gentle nudging for a few seconds more, then grumbled suddenly, “Parsley.  _Parmentier!_ ”

—

It had taken Lesgle and Joly some time to get Grantaire to his door; then they had walked home, Joly rubbing his nose.  He had spoken once: “Bourrache.  You never told me you had a second name.” “Why, when I like your ‘Bossuet’ so much?”  Then they had settled again into silence, a pleasant enough silence that lasted until they were home.  Joly had pressed Lesgle’s arm and darted towards one of the bookshelves, leaving Lesgle to get into his nightshirt in puzzled amusement.

When Joly returned it was carrying a stack of books, and a smile of triumph.  “There.  There, you see?  I knew it.”

"You knew…?"

"Borage.  I knew it."  His fingers were splayed among his library trove, marking pages; with difficulty he found his extracts.  “‘Pliny calls it Euphrosinum, because it maketh a man merry and joyfull: which thing also the old verse concerning Borage doth testifie: Ego Borago—I, Borage—Gaudia semper ago—Bring always courage.’  Don’t hide under that sheet, there’s more.  Bacon: ‘It hath an excellent spirit to repress the fuliginous vapour of dusky melancholie.’  Fuliginous, that’s quite a word.  And— _and_ —I’m not _done yet_ , Jean-Bourrache—there’s John Evelyn.  ‘Sprigs of Borage are of known virtue to revive the hypochondriac and cheer the hard student.’  _There._ Now I am done.”

By this point, Bossuet was visible only as a lumpy sheet, trembling with laughter.  Joly patted his shrouded shoulder.  “And we’ll get Grantaire a birthday present, it’s only a week late or so, and _all will be well_.  Bossuet, stop wriggling like that.  You’re making me step on my magnets.”

**Author's Note:**

> The day-names of the French Republican Calendar were meant to encourage a shift from saints' days to appreciating and reasoning about nature and labor. Here are the days I've used in this fiction (which takes place around the anniversary of the executions of Robespierre, Saint-Just, et al.:
> 
> 1 Vendémiaire, Raisin - Grapes
> 
> 4 Thermidor, Ivraie - darnel, tares - Darnel is a potentially-toxic/intoxicating weed, difficult to distinguish from wheat. The French name (and the Latin binomial) come from words for drunkenness; in the Biblical parable, tares cannot be separated from the crop until harvest. The allegory has been popular for discussions of religious tolerance: judgment being a divine and not a human task.
> 
> 30 Thermidor, Moulin - mill (a French windmill has four ailes...)
> 
> 25 Brumaire, Faisan - pheasant
> 
> 5 Prairial, Canard - duck 
> 
> 23 Floréal, Bourrache - borage (see Joly's explanation)
> 
> 8 Prairial, Martagon - martagon lily (aka turk's-cap lily)
> 
> 28 Ventôse, Capillaire - maidenhair fern (also venus'-hair fern in French)
> 
> 5 Floréal, Rossignol - nightingale 
> 
> 19 Prairial, Tilleul - linden tree (lindens have often been used to create urban greenspaces and line boulevards; they are also symbolically associated with justice)
> 
> 10, 11, 12 Vendémiaire, Cuve, Pomme de terre, Immortelle - vat, potato, strawflower. The strawflower is an "everlasting" ornamental. Potatoes had been mistrusted greatly in France, considered unfit for human consumption, until Parmentier studied and heavily promoted them.
> 
> 22 Ventôse, Persil - parsley
> 
> 15 Thermidor, Brebis - ewe. I am so sorry, I made him say "I'll see EWE on Tuesday," I apologize.


End file.
